


Snow In The Night

by MovesLikeBucky



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), but not graphically so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:35:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29089164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky
Summary: On a quiet and snowy winter night, Aziraphale and Crowley enjoy a night in at the cottage.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 83
Collections: Good Omens Winter Wonderland Zine





	Snow In The Night

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! This was written for the Winter Wonderland Zine put together by the wonderful [southdownsraph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/southdownsraph/pseuds/southdownsraph) <3 and now I can share it with you all!

Snow falls softly on the cottage by the sea. It piles up on the window frames, creaks in the branches of the trees, mixes and mingles with the wind and the night to make perfect snowdrifts along the south-facing wall. It’s quiet, in that way that it only is when it snows. In that crystalline perfection of moments where the world stops and stands still.

A fire glows warm inside this cottage, casts dancing shadows on green leaves and worn book spines. It seeps warmth into the floorboards, into the walls, into this  _ home _ . The smell of spices drifts in the air. Mulled wine, made together in love and in laughter. There are faster ways, but the time put in, the effort and the care, these things make it all the sweeter.

There is an angel. There is a demon. You know this part of the story, where they moved to a little cottage in the downs after saving the world (or at least making an effort to help save it). This part is new. It is the first winter in this cottage, the first snowfall since they moved in and started to make this place a home.

There in front of the fire, wrapped in a fluffy tartan blanket, they sit on the plush and comfy sofa and share the wine. Their legs are tangled together, their hearts are, too. They keep each other warm, hold each other tight. Tighter than they have ever dared, and closer still. Aziraphale sits propped against the arm of the couch, a wine glass in his right hand and his left in Crowley’s. Crowley is curled up in his lap, pillowed against his soft chest. It’s become a normal thing to spend the evenings curled up like this, but especially tonight, where the fire can warm their toes and they can hold each other close beneath the blanket.

Aziraphale is not quite drunk, not quite sober either. He’s in that pleasant place in between, where everything is just a little softer and a little brighter, where when he gestures with his hands he can see the afterimage of them in the air. He likes being here, where the laughter comes a bit easier, where the edges are sanded down. Aziraphale is, and has always been, soft. It shouldn’t be a wonder that he enjoys when his world is, too.

“And then Mrs. Hinsch told me that we’d be in for the first snowfall of the season, sure as anything. She wasn’t mistaken…” Aziraphale trails off as he stares out the large French doors, watching the snow pile up in their back garden, “it’s quite the blizzard out there.”

“Hmm…”

That’s all the response he gets from Crowley, who’d given up words at least an hour ago. Crowley has always stumbled over words just as surely as he stumbles on his too-skinny legs. In this haze of wine and love it doesn’t surprise Aziraphale to see he’s given up on the conversation entirely, content to lace and unlace their fingers. Aziraphale watches as Crowley runs his thumb along Aziraphale’s palm, playing with Aziraphale’s hand like he’s a particularly bored cat pawing at a stuffed mouse. His eyes are transfixed on their hands, on their rings. Matching silver bands on their left fingers.

Aziraphale pauses his story, not even sure where he’d been going with it, just to watch Crowley. To watch Crowley marvel and stare, unblinking, as his thumb grazes Aziraphale’s silver band. There’s a soft and silent smile that spreads across Crowley’s face these days, one that comes easily and without fanfare. A settled-into thing, a smile that has carved new lines into an old face, into the face Aziraphale holds most dear. 

Aziraphale will never forget the first time he saw it, that fateful day when the angel had reached across the table at the Ritz and entwined their fingers. When he had looked Crowley right in the eyes and told him how he felt, that there was nowhere else worth being that was not at Crowley’s side. That soft smile that’s become so common spread then, with just a hint of a tear track from under dark lenses. Crowley had said, ever so softly,  _ our own side _ , before leaning across the table and kissing Aziraphale gently.

How far they’ve come since then.

“Y’re staring at me, angel,” Crowley says, yellow eyes having roamed from hands to face, breaking Aziraphale from his memories, bringing him back to the moment.

“Just thinking is all, darling.”

“Hmm…” Crowley says as he twists and turns, slithers like the snake he is until he’s turned over onto his stomach, chin resting on his crossed arms on Aziraphale’s chest. “Thinking about what?”

“I was thinking…of when I kissed you this morning.”

“Was a good kiss, if I remember.”

“Well you see, my dear, I’m not quite sure I did it right.” 

“Oh?” Crowley says with a tempting grin.

“Thought I might try again…” Aziraphale says before capturing Crowley’s lips with his own, tasting the spice of the wine on them. Even now, even after these years together, he cherishes every one of these kisses. Imprints them on his mind like pressing a leaf between pages of an old and well loved book. He never wants to forget any of them.

Kisses these days are slow and languid, not bothered by the hurried pace of the world at large. They have all the time they could ever need, all the time they never dared to dream of. Why not take a moment to savor? Aziraphale’s hands find their way into Crowley’s long hair, just as surely as Crowley’s long fingers find the buttons of Aziraphale’s shirt. Well-tread paths of a well-kept love. Aziraphale knows what makes Crowley tick, knows just where to touch and just where to kiss. Knows how sensitive the skin surrounding his tattoo is, knows what a slow drag of teeth there does to his husband. Crowley, in turn, knows how Aziraphale loves the feel of his nails raking through his chest hair, the possessiveness of the action, like Crowley is trying to dig his way in and make a home there nestled in Aziraphale’s ribs right next to his heart.

Theirs is a love that has been nurtured, given the water and sunlight needed to grow into the thriving thing it is today. In this frozen and silent night, with the snow falling down outside, they take their pleasure in each other. They drink mulled wine from each other’s lips, taste it on each other’s tongues. Here in this cottage, in this place, in their home.

There’s a push and a pull, breathy moans and whispered endearments. Small voiced pleas of  _ yes _ and  _ more _ . There is a call and there is a response, there’s a tightness and a release. There’s the quiet chiming of a miracle, and two soft sighs of contentment as they settle in, wrapped in each other still. 

Aziraphale strokes a lazy hand up and down Crowley’s spine, listens to his husband snoring softly, feeling Crowley’s steady heartbeat against his chest. He presses a kiss to Crowley’s temple before sinking down into the blanket and drifting off, safe and content with his demon in his arms.

The snow still falls outside, still piles along the window panes. Still makes the branches of the trees creak and moan, still collects in drifts that the neighborhood children will have a time with upon waking. But among those soft sounds, quietly in the night, one might mistake the wind for a voice.

_ I love you. I love you. I love you. _


End file.
